


Merry and Bright

by strikeyourcolors



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Crafts, Dad Bruce Wayne, Family Bonding, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Inappropriate Baked Goods, Presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 11:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16994370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikeyourcolors/pseuds/strikeyourcolors
Summary: Upon realizing any gifts he or his sons receive for Christmas would be more than superfluous, Bruce decides that all the presents exchanged this year will be handmade and from the heart.It goes about as well as you'd expect.





	Merry and Bright

**Author's Note:**

> I swear this was going to be a mildly serious, heart-warming fic with some tutorials. Then I realized that would actually never get done by Christmas itself, so it actually turned into a tribute to the fact that a lot of times, hand-making a gift is a total train wreck and you'd be better off buying something because then you'd retain a portion of your sanity. 
> 
> This is fairly tame except for swears and the incident at the very end. Teen rating is really a caution more than anything.

By all accounts, it's been a fairly sedate family meeting. No one has stormed out, or thrown a punch, and they've agreed on patrol schedules. There's nothing pressing. There's no nightmarish case weighing on all of their minds. 

It's been rather calm, this week. Of course that might mean that the rest of the month will be far worse. The so-called holiday season rarely gives them a break; it brings with it a plethora of fancy parties that are perfect to rob and a large number of petty crimes to break up. The Joker is safely in Arkham (they check multiple times a day) so it seems unlikely he'll hatch something up before Christmas. 

It's the perfect time, Bruce thinks, to slip in some family business. “I was thinking,” he begins, and he watches the eyes of all his sons shoot to him. They're all a little wary and he's not sure if he should be hurt or proud of that fact. “We have more than we need,” he continues, “In the way of physical things, at the least. This year, I don't believe that we should exchange Christmas presents.” 

“No,” Dick gasps like he's suggested they burn down an orphanage. “”You can't have Christmas without presents, Bruce! It's tradition!” 

“None of us need anything,” he points out patiently. “Perhaps we could buy gifts for the less fortunate.” 

Tim eyes him critically. “We already do that. We already do more than that. It's not the monetary value of the presents or even that we need anything. It's an indulgence and a tradition, like Dick said.” 

“You need to keep traditions alive,” his oldest son cuts in. 

“Christmas is the one morning a year where we definitely won't end up staring at one another awkwardly for hours while trying to think of something that isn't about work,” Tim adds. “It's because there are presents so everyone ends up distracted instead.” 

Of course, Damian has to open his mouth. “Except for the year you received lingerie in error when the tags on the packages were swapped.” 

“Or if it really was intended for you and you wanted to open it in privacy,” Dick says. “We don't judge.” 

The youngest in their group frowns. “I certainly will. What about last Christmas Eve when Todd ate half the turkey and stole the freeze ray from the gave to go sledding down the stairs? Is he invited again this year? Because if he is there will certainly be awkward stares, present or no.”

Bruce is already staring at them all and trying to make it decidedly not awkward. He's not doing a very good job. “Of course Jason is invited. He's family.” 

They all look like they want to argue, or call him a hypocrite. Instead, Dick says, “You don't even eat turkey, anyway.” 

“Presents,” Tim repeats, drawing them back to the decision at hand. “It can be token. We can draw names from a hat instead of buying for everyone. But we need some promise of pleasantness to come and it's always important to Alfred that we express affection.” 

It softens Bruce the slightest bit. Alfred truly does enjoy shopping for gifts and exchanging them, especially with the boys. “Perhaps gifts for Alfred but-” 

Dick leaps on the moment of weakness. “Damian's still a kid, Bruce. He deserves presents too.” 

“I'm not a child,” Damian protests, “But thank you for recognizing that I deserve tribute.” 

Tim groans. “There's a solution to this and you're going to hate me.” He pauses while all eyes turn toward him. “Gifts,” he replies to the unspoken question. “But handmade gifts.” 

The suggestion admittedly has some promise. “No money spent, other than on materials,” he begins slowly, already starting to form an idea of ground rules in his mind. “They have to be mostly crafted on your own.” 

Damian starts to speak. Bruce holds up a hand. “The head of an enemy does not count as acceptable, nor as handmade.” 

Damian closes his mouth. 

~*~*~

He's not sure, all things considered, what compels him to tell Jason Todd. But he arrived one night on a rooftop with a plate of Alfred's cookies (only slightly broken where he accidentally stepped on them during a fist fight) and a very formal and probably very awkward note from Bruce about their arrangements for Christmas. 

Jason tore it to shreds in front of him. Tim's still not sure if it was to express contempt or to destroy the evidence. 

Somehow, though, it's led to this moment. It's led to Jason sitting in his apartment, asking for tips on crafting. Honestly, Tim is a little resentful because he hardly has his own ideas for what to make for his family members without Jason harvesting any of them. 

“If you're so good at knitting,” Jason says, “Why aren't you doing it?”

Tim is instead trying to instruct the man on how to knit a scarf and he thinks he'd be better off with a blind lemur as a pupil. “My hands are still kind of jacked up from punching someone who turned out to have armor that was basically like steel without my gloves on.” It's not even a lie. His joints are still swollen and if he didn't have arthritis before he most definitely is going to have it now from this damage. 

“Your hands are fucked up, not jacked up. Jacked up implies that they are on steroids,” the other man mutters as he frowns at the ball of yarn that Tim is winding up after an unfortunate third or fourth attempt. “Why are we not using needles?”

“Hand knitting is easier and more trendy. I thought it would be a good place to start.” Besides the fact that it was kind of an experiment. Tim didn't want to try and fail but surely if Jason can figure it out, he'll be able to do so. “Try again. I'll just make a knot to start and then you cast on.” He gestures the motion with his wrist. “Pick up and twist and slide your hand through.”

The large man manages it, probably because they've done this part at least ten times. Tim's demonstrated, and tried to hold Jason's hand through it, and even looked up tutorials in case he's just not teaching it in the proper way. This time, the man performs the task relatively easily and looks expectantly at him. “Good,” he praises. “Now do that fifteen more times. That should make a decently wide scarf.” 

He doesn't have a pattern. He's making it up as he goes and, with Jason's skill level, he doesn't think that's a bad thing. 

“This is kind of soothing,” Jason admits ten minutes later as he continues to perform stitches. Tim agrees; he's found knitting to be soothing and even watching Jason is relaxing. He twists the yarn, pulls a loop up and slides his hand through it, over and over. Fortunately they have a decent movie on television, but he's contemplating stealing the remote and turning it to something because at this point Jason is far too tied up in yarn to be able to do anything about it. “Except for the fact that this is the yarn ball that never ends.” 

“No it goes on and on my friends,” Tim deadpans. He has to take advantage of those bound hands somehow. 

Sure enough, Jason's eyes narrow. “Don't even. This is going to take like an hour.” 

“Some people started knitting it, not knowing what it was. And they'll continue knitting it forever just because-” He can't help the grin that is starting to appear on his face. 

“An hour,” Jason repeats. “That's not very long to live, Timmy. Is it worth it?”

He goes quiet, still grinning, but it's only because he's run out of material. He keeps the yarn unwound for Jason, watching as something takes shape between his hands. It takes more like forty minutes, rather than an hour, and they are out of yarn. Tim teaches Jason to tie off the stitches and takes a side of the finished product to examine. 

They both stare at it. 

“Huh,” Jason says. “That's...” 

“It's soft,” Tim supplies. 

“It's a net,” he replies “It's a really fancy, soft, pastel colored net.” 

Jason isn't wrong. It's a little wide to be a scarf and more of a square than a giant rectangle. The stitches are large, and the yarn isn't quite the weight advertised. “I think maybe your arms and hands are too big for arm-knitting,” Tim decides. 

“I tightened every stitch!” He protests and he seems torn between crying and punching something. 

“I saw,” the smaller man soothes in response. “You just have really, really big forearms. Like I'm pretty sure one of them is as big around as my thigh. I couldn't knit with my thighs.” 

One eyebrow lifts. “If you could I bet you'd make a ton of money.” 

It shouldn't please Tim as much as it does. It also shouldn't make him want to learn. 

“What if,” Jason begins, “I used the net to rob someone? Or I used it to scoop up actual gifts? Does that count as handmade?”

“You think like Damian.” 

“Maybe the kid is on to something,” he argues. “Besides, my field is barren of fucks to give for what you people think of me.” 

Tim somehow doubts that. He thinks that Jason's field is well-planted with fucks. 

~*~*~

In a way, it's comforting that Golden Boy is struggling with this Christmas present embargo too. 

Okay, it's actually insanely fucking comforting and hilarious that the perfect Dick Grayson is a train wreck at doing anything crafty. It's how Jason finds himself sitting on the hardwood floor of the man's apartment while both of them stare at plastic trays filled to the brim with dirt. 

“How long does it take seeds to germinate?” Dick asks. “It's been four days. Do you think they were bad? Do you think I killed them? Do they need more dirt on top of them because I kind of see some of them still?” He pauses to take a breath. 

It's Jason's cue to at least say something. “You just throw grass seeds on the lawn and they grow, right? I don't think they need any dirt on top of them or any special care.” 

Dick frowns, staring at the dirt as though willpower and a smoldering look can make something sprout through. “I don't know a lot about this. There weren't really lawns in the circus, you know?”

Jason snorts. “Like there were more lawns in my apartment building? Unless you think the mushrooms in the corner and the pot dealer downstairs gave me cultivation tips.” 

As usual, the perfect child cuts his eyes to the side to avoid the awkward moments that happen when he forgets that they had varying weird and shitty childhoods. “I think four days is plenty of time though, don't you? I haven't been over-watering and I put some plastic wrap over them but not air tight.” 

He pokes his finger into the soil just to feel like he's doing something. It is damp, but not super wet. Damp seems better than too wet or too dry. “Did you read the bag the seeds came in?”

It's like a light goes on above Dick's head. “Of course! The bag!” He leaps up, prancing toward the door. Jason swears he skips and does some complicated little dance move as he runs to the kitchen to retrieve the bag he stashed in the cabinet where he stashes everything else that doesn't have a proper place. 

He returns with it and reads, anxiously. “It says to allow two weeks. Does that mean for germination or full growth?”

“City kid,” Jason stresses, tapping himself on the chest. “What are you doing, anyway? When you called and said you needed help with moving dirt I assumed you killed someone and we were burying a body. I actually got kind of excited.” 

“I'm not going to apologize for disappointing you when the reason is because I didn't commit a murder,” Dick mutters. “I'm growing things, obviously. Damian has animals he constantly is buying cat grass for. I was going to start an herb garden for Alfred if that went well.” 

Jason is, against his better judgment, mildly curious. “What about for Tim? Bruce?”

“You?” Dick adds, waggling his eyebrows in a suggestive way that makes him look like a puppet. He sort of wants to make a joke about Bruce having his hand up his ass but he knows how inappropriate that would be at the moment. “Honestly I thought Tim would get grass too because he might find it soothing. Maybe succulents for Bruce? He could put them on his desk and forget they existed and they would survive.” 

“Like his Robins,” Jason praises. “I love it.” 

Those dark blue eyes narrow. It's almost too easy to get a reaction. “Anyway, succulents grow in different soil. I think they need pebbles and lots of drainage?” He remembers absorbing that information from somewhere, at least.

“I can't get different soil to grow things in,” Dick all but wails. He falls over on the floor dramatically, narrowly avoiding landing in a tray or dirt or knocking the bag of seeds everywhere. “I can't even grow grass in dirt! Good dirt! I got the organic kind and everything!” 

He kind of pities the man. He looks for some type of helpful suggestion. Maybe he can use the food scraps congealing in his kitchen to fertilize? “It's winter,” he says at last. “Maybe they need a grow light or to be somewhere warm?” As though Dick doesn't keep his apartment two degrees colder than Hell. 

Dick strokes his chin like he has a beard and is actually wise. “That could be it. I could get a grow light.” 

“Yes,” Jason encourages. “Get a grow light and I bet everything will sprout right up. Anyway, you know Alfred will bring everything back to life. He's great with shit like that.” Plants, animals, wayward superheroes; Alfred cared for them all. 

His would-be older brother claps his hands together. “Thanks, Jay! There's still another bag of dirt in the car, by the way. I bought the stuff with more fertilizer in it this time.” 

Jason groans, but at least he won't be sweating buckets if he goes outside. 

~*~*~

Baking cookies with Damian is the stuff of dreams. Dick has actually had dreams about it, in fact. He's imagined a cozy kitchen and flour on his baby brother's nose. He's thought of how cute it would be and how close they would become on their culinary adventure. 

He hadn't imaged it this way. Damian is still shrieking like a harpy and Dick's knuckles are bruised where the kid literally struck him with a wooden spoon for trying to put his finger in the cookie batter. 

“Are you still pouting, Grayson?” Damian snaps. “It's unsanitary.” 

“I washed my hands!” Dick argues. “Alfred lets me do it!” 

“If Alfred let you jump off a bridge, would you continue to do so and think it was the proper thing to do?” 

Dick tilts his head. “My father lets me jump off skyscrapers regularly and it's in our job description, so yeah.” 

Damian sighs. “That was a poor example. The point still stands that these are my Christmas cookies and I will not have them sullied.” 

“You asked for my help,” the older man points out. 

“A fact which I am deeply regretting.” But Dick knows the truth. He knows Damian wants the reassurance that he's doing things correctly. Why he picked him out of their siblings who know their way around the kitchen, Dick isn't certain, but he's touched by it and the warm fuzzies in his chest make him overlook a lot of warning signs. 

The batter is mixed. The ingredients are in the proper ratio. The spoon of batter Dick licked (after much debate and being required to immediately wash it) tasted kind of strange but it was some sort of Iranian recipe that Damian looked up online and Dick isn't about to discourage him. The oven is pre-heated and the cookie sheets pre-greased. 

Getting dough onto the cookie sheet proves to be surprisingly difficult when, by Damian's demand, they can't use their hands. The sticky substance doesn't come cleanly out of rounded spoons, it isn't runny enough to drip off a fork, and they don't have any fancy gadgets to pre-portion cookies. 

At last, Damian admits defeat. They wash their hands like surgeons preparing for a marathon operation. From then on, Dick is plotting ways to get holiday music on the radio instead of classical and maybe, just maybe, he can manage a hug before Damian knees him and escapes. 

The first batch of cookies isn't so much many cookies as one giant cookie. There are various formations, like continents on the baking sheet. “You can just break them apart,” Dick says. “We'll know to space the others farther apart.” 

“They're ugly,” Damian mutters unhappily. 

“Ugly cookies still taste good. You shouldn't be mean to them because they're ugly,” Dick replies as he pulls over a plate so they can transfer the baked goods. 

The boy still doesn't look pleased. “We're eating them. How much meaner can we be to any cookie, pretty or ugly? Is the noble goal of the cookie to be eaten?”

“Yes?” He's not sure how to answer that. “Look, let's just change the spacing on this batch.” He reaches to toss a couple of the dough-balls back into the batter. “There. Put those in the oven.” 

Damian does so, then hovers, staring at the oven like a mother hen brooding over a nest of chicks. There's a crease on his forehead that means he's worried. Damian is difficult to read; maybe more so than any of them because he hides everything behind a crisp, annoying little mask of rage and disdain. It's certainly useful at keeping people away from him. 

“When I tried baking it turned out way worse than ugly cookies,” Dick tells him. “It was like cookie soup when I pulled the tray out of the oven. It was just this gross mass of goo.” 

Those greenish eyes cut to him curiously. “What had you done?”

“I like that you instantly assume it was my fault.” Even if it had been. “I used white cornmeal instead of flour because I wasn't paying attention to the canisters.” He waits while Damian makes a face. “If I'd been smarter back then, I would have fed them to Bruce and acted really sad when he wouldn't scrape up that monstrosity with a spoon and put it in his mouth. Alas, I was far more innocent then.” He's already wondering, just a little, if he can get away with it this year. “You're doing way better than most of us would for a first try.” 

Damian clicks his teeth. “Tt.” But, despite himself, he seems relatively pleased. “I will simply bake until the cookies are acceptable in both taste and appearance.” 

He knows better than to argue when Damian is so determined. “I believe in you,” he confirms. “What are you going to do when they're done? Icing? Sprinkles?”

“Nothing so juvenile as sprinkles,” the boy declares. “Perhaps I could draw on them with the set of edible inks Pennyworth has.” 

Dick nods; he's actually looking forward to seeing the cookies. His brother is a great artist. “Ask permission first. Can I eat one of the ugly cookies?”

The tray is slid toward him. “Of course. You may sit in the corner and devour the other rejects.” 

He has cookies, so he's not offended. 

~*~*~

“I just don't understand how this happened,” Dick admits, staring at the pile of stickiness that seems firmly attached to the ceiling. He's waiting for it to drip down but it just hangs there, terrifying in shape and size. “You're like the best at learning to do new things.” 

“Apparently making jam doesn't qualify as a new thing I'm good at,” Tim mutters. “My neighbors called the police. Months of sneaking in the windows in full costume and coming home with bullets literally in me and it's a canning adventure gone wrong that gets me on the police blotter.”

“I'm sure that will be wiped clean soon enough.” Dick hopes. Probably not before the police officers have a good laugh at shots fired actually being a mountain of homemade culinary disaster becoming a volcano and exploding all over the kitchen. “I thought you said you cleaned this up.” 

His younger brother glowers. “I cleaned up what I could reach. It seems like every time I turn around there's more. It's like they are mocking me and breeding.” 

He looks at the roll of paper towels and the spray bottle before picking them up to at least try to finish cleaning what is on eye-level. It will drive Tim crazy if evidence of his failure isn't wiped away. “I don't think that fruit and sugar has that level of sentience.” 

“Yet. I followed the directions exactly.” He looks like he's going to be reviewing said directions obsessively throughout the night. It's a very Tim thing to do. Dick already knows he's not going to be able to keep the crazy train in the station on this one; the best he can do is damage control. 

“You're good at other things,” he repeats. “Lots of other things. Do one of those.” 

“I wanted to do something different.” Tim isn't one to pout but, Dick thinks, he is definitely pouting at this moment. His lower lip is extended and he looks far younger than he is. He wants to point out that surely Tim is used to thinks going wrong but he understands the pressure of somehow making gifts this Christmas. 

They totally should have capped gifts at five dollars and done some sort of horrible gift exchange game. He'll have that suggestion ready the next time Bruce gets some hair-brained idea of changing holiday traditions around. “You still have a couple of days. You have a back up, don't you?” Please, let him have a back up. 

“Of course I have something else,” Tim snaps. “I don't leave everything until the last moment, unlike some people. I still thought this would be a nice gesture and a chance to teach myself something new.” 

Dick sighs, scrubbing at what he thinks is a blueberry that somehow got embedded in the grout of the backsplash. “And so you did,” he says cheerfully. “You can research how to get that thing off the ceiling.” 

~*~*~

Christmas dawns bright, crisp, and cold. It's fairly standard for Gotham weather in the winter. There's still snow on the ground, but the roads have long since been cleared. Alfred makes a point of informing them all of this fact when he schedules Christmas luncheon. 

Jason arrives fashionably late, surprised that when he swings into the kitchen through the side door that Damian is there. 

Bruce he could see waiting for him to scold him. Bruce's blood son, however? He doesn't seem the type to simply be in the room unless there's some sort of deadly trap and he's waiting for it to ensnare you. 

Instead the kid has cookie tins in front of him and is very carefully selecting a range of cookies to place in each one. There's no rhyme or reason, as far as Jason can tell, but he's certainly intent on it. “Am I late?” 

“Father told you an hour earlier than lunch would be served to prevent you from being entirely late,” Damian informs him without looking at him. Jason kind of admires the talent he has for making everyone feel like an absolute worm next to him. Talia had the same type of air about her and it served her well; he can only hope Damian will use it to his advantage instead of letting it get him punched in the face. 

Then he looks at the cookies. From a distance he had seen that they had some type of design on them but...he side eyes Damian, who isn't even bothering to pay him any attention. He doesn't seem devious, or amused. 

Each cookie is a varying shade of tan. They are mostly round, but slightly oblong. On each cookie is some decoration in shades of brown, pink, and shimmering gold. The designs are drawn with a purposeful, steady hand. Jason can appreciate the artistry that went into each cookie but...

There are more on the counter. Those have a different design, done entirely in brown and dark green. Jason bites his lip desperately, trying to smooth his face into something approaching decency because Damian obviously worked hard on these cookies. 

That, and he clearly has no idea the joy he is about to give to Jason when they exchange gifts. 

“Where'd you get the recipe and decoration design?” He asks, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck. 

He's pretty sure Damian is about to hiss at him. “Since you have ruined the surprise of the gift,” he says crisply. “I did meticulous research into both subjects and determined that floral and geometric designs paired well with the recipe.” 

“They look great,” Jason replies and he's not lying. He does beat a hasty retreat out of the kitchen and moves into the dining room. Luncheon on Christmas is more of a buffet than a seated meal. It allows them to move around and not be trapped at a table for three meals a day together. He's heard the tradition was begun because Dick was far too excited as a child to sit still and eat without playing with one of his new presents, or shaking an unwrapped box. Maybe he has one thing to thank Goldie for. 

They eat. Jason tries not to cling to Alfred in any capacity and he finds it's actually surprisingly enjoyable. The food is good and anticipation is even more delicious. 

Then come presents. Dick presents his cat grass to Damian and his herb garden (that is mostly dirt) to Alfred. None of them look dead or infested by spiders which seems like a victory. Dick, surprisingly, adds in little stuffed animals. The stitching on them is crooked and the stuffing is coming out of at least two, but the little birds and bats he offers them each are clearly carefully constructed and kind of adorable.

Jason had decided on dried soup mixes with instructions. He had even gone through the extra effort to put the ingredients in pretty jars that he'd washed beforehand. Gone are the days where Bruce would have run the gift for traces of poison, and he's kind of disappointed, but he's more pleased he found variations on Thai coconut-lime curry base and split-lentil pea soup. “None of you have an excuse for not eating now,” he informs them. “You literally just dump that shit in a pot with some water.” He turns to Bruce. “Not that you had an excuse in the first place since you have a butler.” 

“I will endeavor to instruct all of you in the proper use of a stock pot,” Alfred tells them, smoothing over the gruff manners. “Thank you, Master Jason.” 

From Tim (who he's surprised to realize is no longer a Replacement in his head, even) there are tiny floral arrangements. Dick accuses him of stealing his idea until he realizes that the plant life in the terrariums are all entirely fake. “They have themes,” Tim explains, causing them all to peer more closely. For Jason there is a Alice in Wonderland theme, and he's horribly pleased by the whimsical nature of it because it's almost exactly what he'd imagined when he read the book as a child. There wasn't a lot of opportunity for magical looking gardens in the slums. 

He recognizes Dick's as The Last Unicorn and Alfred's as Downton Abbey. He doesn't get a good look at either theme regarding father and son before it's Bruce's turn to offer something. 

Jason isn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been coasters. The tiles are expensive and weighty. The felt on the bottom is soft and obviously not the stuff you give to elementary school students. On the top are photographs, glued down and sealed to the ceramic surface. Most of them are of Gotham City from a high vantage point. Some of them are clearly from around Wayne Manor. 

“The photographs are not as clear or inspired as Tim's work,” Bruce admits and he looks so shy that Jason wants to punch him in the teeth and yell that this had been his idea in the first place. “Of course there is new armor waiting for you in the Cave-” 

Dick's eyes narrow. “You said nothing bought.” 

“For us,” Bruce clarifies. “I said nothing about Batman giving purchased gifts.” 

“I, for one, will gladly accept,” Tim says. “I don't need to bleed in the hallway with my neighbors waiting for another pipe bomb canning incident.” 

There are tea and coffee sets from Alfred, who declares he never agreed to adhere to the handmade rule. It's a small gesture, but as touching as it ever is. It doesn't overshadow their homemade and somewhat crappy gifts, and Jason's certainly going to enjoy having a wider variety of tea. 

Then it's Damian's turn. Jason barely manages to not rub his hands together in sadistic glee. 

~*~*~

Christmas is a success. Bruce mentally pats himself on the back as he leans back in his armchair while Damian goes to retrieve his cookies. He'd been surprised his youngest, most blood-thirsty son wanted to bake but it's a soothing hobby. Alfred is excellent at supervising and if Jason, of all of them, has found a knack for it then surely Damian can work out a few simple recipes. 

He knows the recipe is something Persian. He knows it is going to taste like honey. It's taken some of the surprise out of it, certainly, but it's made with what he hopes is affection. 

All of the gifts have been touching. None of them have fallen back on what they are familiar with and he's proud of his boys. They're always learning new things, and always reaching out. Tim is huffing the bag of coffee Alfred gave him while Dick lines up his coasters. Jason, meanwhile, is grinning. He looks happy. Too happy. 

Before Bruce can question him, Damian is back. He distributes the cookies in their closed boxes (and doesn't throw one at Tim, which is a Christmas miracle) to all of them, looking a little flustered. He avoids eye contact with Alfred and Dick, and stares at Tim like it's a challenge. “Damian's worked hard on these,” Bruce says lest any teasing begin. “He tried several different recipes before he settled on this one.” 

He lifts the lid off his tin and he stares. 

A quick brush of his hand over his eyes and, no, he isn't seeing things. The box is lovely. The wax paper inside is meticulously folded. And the cookies? 

Well, Bruce thinks, desperately trying to find a silver lining. The cookies themselves look fine. It's the decorations on the cookies. 

Damian is hovering, trying not to look like he cares, but balanced on his toes and tense in a way that means he desperately cares. 

Dick looks like he might explode into laughter at any moment. His face is bright red. Alfred's eyes are wide. Tim hasn't opened his tin yet, but he's clearly aware something is wrong. And Jason? Jason definitely has had some advanced warning about the state of the cookies. 

Bruce picks one up and, with a defiant and warning look to his older children, brings it to his mouth to bite into. 

“Aw,” Jason says. “At least lick it a little bit first. Don't just go for it.” 

“Oh God,” Dick wheezes. “Excuse me.” It comes out garbled as he makes a dash for the closest door, but Bruce knows he's already laughing. He just hopes Damian doesn't take it as mockery. 

Apparently, Dick acts strangely enough normally, that Damian doesn't notice the outburst. “How is it, Father?”

The taste is exquisite, honestly. It's honey and spice with the perfect texture. “Wonderful,” he replies reassuringly. “So good, in fact, that I think we should all have our tea a bit early so we can properly enjoy a few of the cookies.” 

It doesn't seem like Damian is waiting for anyone else's opinion, which is fair since Dick will eat anything and he doesn't usually care what Tim thinks. “I did sample some tea pairings that I thought would accent them nicely.” 

Tim has opened his cookies and his eyes are extremely wide. 

“Why don't you help Alfred brew the tea, then?” Bruce asks, wondering if it would be covert to physically carry Damian into the kitchen or to at least give him a little shove. He can hear Dick start to come back in the room, then run away every time he approaches the threshold of the door. 

“Of course,” Alfred says, jumping up to put a hand on Damian's shoulders. “If you can advise me of the steeping times on the particular types, Master Damian, I would be much obliged.” He probably knows the steeping time for every tea known to mankind, but it gives Damian something to do and gets him out of the room. 

Just in time for Tim to turn to him. “Are these what I think they are?”

“They're vagina cookies!” Dick all but yells, tumbling back into the room like he couldn't restrain himself any more. He probably very well couldn't. It had shown great self-control that he hadn't screamed it instantly. 

Bruce rubs his temples. “By all means, say that a bit more loudly,” he scolds. He glares at Jason, who isn't laughing, but is definitely mirthful. “Did you do this?”

“Oh no,” Jason replies. “This is all organic which makes it even better for me. He said he got the decoration ideas off the internet. He thinks they're flowers, not vaginas. 

“I mean, they're kind of more vulva cookies than vagina cookies,” Tim points out, poking at one. “There's more than just the vaginal entrance and-” 

“Tim!” Bruce snaps. He sucks in a breath, then another. He isn't scandalized, far from it, because this really is funny. But Damian's sensitive, and he doesn't want his first gift-giving experience of something so personal to be ridiculed. “No one is to tell Damian what these cookies look like. Are we clear?” 

Dick has already suggestively eaten one cookie, making Jason roll his eyes and Tim blush. He holds up another. “Can we at least tell him these cookies look like butts? Green and brown was a really awkward choice.” 

“No,” Bruce says sternly. “Absolutely not. You are to say the cookies are delicious and nothing else.” 

Dick grins at him, crawling over to examine the cookies that Bruce is still holding on his lap. He idly rests a hand on the top of his head like he's much younger than he is. He's certainly acting like it, though he eats the next cookie with a more dignified air. 

Tim has the lid on his cookies and seems to be trying to ignore what they look like. Jason is more relaxed than Bruce has seen him in years, and he hasn't even had to break out the scotch. “You were right,” he says and Bruce nearly swallows his own tongue because he never thought he would hear Jason say that to him. 

He tries to play it cool but he can tell by the way Dick's head drops to his knee that he's failing miserably. “Oh?” 

“Home-made gifts were the best idea,” Jason replies as he rises to his feet, stretching languidly. “It's good to see you eating the vagina cookies and ass cookies in equal ratio. I always wondered.” 

Tim and Dick cackle as Jason disappears into the kitchen, presumably to thank Damian for giving him the best Christmas ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/Reviews/Prompts much appreciated ♥ Find me [here](http://strikeyourcolors.tumblr.com) until the burning heat-death Tumblr is inevitably spiraling toward, or drop a comment below!


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